Mattie, whose legs were agile but not nearly as long as Loharri’s, stepped into it, wetting the hem of her dress and soaking her slippers—she wore them for the occasion’s sake, even though she had no need of footwear.
Loharri grabbed her elbow, pulling her out of the mess. “Look at that,” he said. “I swear, the condition of these streets is just shameful.”
“Why don’t you do something about it?” Mattie shook out her skirt, spilling the murky drops onto the pavement. “You’re in charge of the city—you and your friends, I mean.”
“Priorities, dear.” Loharri still held on to her elbow and dragged her along. The fresh air apparently energized him, since he was now moving in long, confident strides. “And besides, this is the Duke’s territory, and he wants to keep it ancient and quaint. And it is only right to abide by his wishes—as long as they don’t interfere with our plans.”
Mattie was getting a distinct feeling that Loharri’s willingness to discuss political and urban matters with her had a hidden purpose—perhaps he wanted her to talk… but to whom? Mattie was not a full member of the Alchemists’ party, and as such she saw little interest in politics—why worry about something she would never have an impact on? She shook her head. Loharri was rubbing off on her, scheming and trying to guess people’s motives and question everything—that was him, not her. Mattie only wanted to do her craft, and worry little about civic planning.
“What are the main priorities then?” she asked.
“Governance.” He gave her a long look. “So, what did you hear about Beresta’s son?”
“Nothing.” Mattie shook her arm free and threaded it under his, as was proper. “Just that she had one. Why, is he famous?”
“Not in a way you’d want to be,” Loharri said. “So, nothing about his current whereabouts?”
Mattie moved her head side to side, in a slow gesture of negation. “I just told you. I only learned that she had a son… she was not communicative.”
“Hm,” Loharri said. “I suppose you’ll try and look for him then? To see if he knows of his mother’s work?”
“Maybe,” Mattie said. “Why?”
“Just curious. He’s been missing for some time now. You’ll tell me if you find him, won’t you.” Loharri did not wait for her answer—he turned under an arch of crumbling stone encrusted with pallid circles of lichenous growth, into a shaded courtyard. The wall of the building, gray like the rest of the district, was half-hidden under the living green carpet of toad flax, which already sent forth its tiny white flowers. Mattie recognized the building because of it—this seemed a side entrance into a little-used wing of the ossuary adjacent to the Parliament building. This wing contained no bones yet, and its echoey empty halls were occasionally used for parties and large-but-clandestine gatherings.
Loharri knocked on the small door half-hidden under the curtain of vegetation, and they were admitted inside. Lamps on the walls created warm semicircles of yellow light, and they overlapped, creating a scalloped edge on the walls and the floor made of large oblong slabs, destined to one day become the coffin lids of the notable citizens. The floor resounded hollow under the feet, always reminding of its ultimate purpose.
The mechanics were apparently throwing a party, but surreptitious business was the usual side effect of such events. These men, fastidious and solemn, did not seem to be able to remain in the same room with another human being without trying to figure out exactly how the fellow could be useful, harmful, or neither. They paid Mattie little mind, and no wonder—regular humans were mere clockworks to them, to be examined and figured out and, if necessary, taken apart; the automatons passed beneath notice.
Several serious fellows greeted Loharri with nods and reserved smiles—Mattie suspected that he was too lively for them, too moody, too unpredictable. His position of influence was assured by his proficiency and his many inventions—the most recent one already belched fire in every foundry, increasing their efficiency by some subtle but important percentage—but his demeanor and his disordered personal life earned him a few disapproving looks.
Loharri acted as if he didn’t notice—he shook hands and chatted, and even came to say hello to several women sitting around the long tables, away from the men. They came as a decoration, and no one else seemed to pay much attention to them. Mattie wondered if she should join them and keep away from trouble, but her feet already led her after Loharri, the role of an obedient automaton as familiar to her as the sight of her own face.
She caught snatches of conversations—some talked about the Alchemists rallying for the next election; there were rumors that they were holding their most potent medicines in reserve, to be unveiled before the election, to wow and stun the populace. Imagine that, curing typhoid! Would there be anything but gratitude? Others mentioned that the Alchemists had been getting cozy with a few of the Duke’s courtiers, seeking influence by the route of tradition rather than popularity.
And yet others talked about the gargoyles. Mattie stopped shadowing Loharri for a moment and listened, not moving, looking fixedly at her creator’s back. The speaker—a small, rotund man of middle age whom she had met many times but whose name she could not remember, talked to Bergen—a man who looked as though pickled by many years that passed over his balding head. His dark clothes hung loosely on his desiccated body, and yet his mind was sharp; he was perhaps the only one in this gathering whom Loharri would call a friend.
“Think about it,” said the rotund man, his face filling with alarming red color. “Without the gargoyles, what will the Duke be?”
“The Duke,” Bergen replied. “Sure, the gargoyles and their sanctions might seem irrelevant, and perhaps they are. But without the third leg, this government will not be stable—we do need the court, you know. Otherwise, it’ll be nothing but our squabbling with the alchemists.”
“And that would be a bad thing?”
“Of course,” Bergen said. “I for one do not think a civil war is such a good idea, and without the Duke we might have just that. Not that we don’t have enough trouble already.”
“But the gargoyles…”
“Are our history. This city is proud of its gargoyles, and there isn’t much you can do about it,” Bergen concluded and turned away from his interlocutor. “Spiritual guidance, be it superstition or tradition, is not always a bad thing. Some people need an external compass.” His watery old eyes stopped on Mattie, and he smiled.
“Good afternoon, Messer Bergen,” Mattie said in her flattest voice.
“Hello, Mattie,” he said. “Your master around?”
She pointed wordlessly at Loharri, still leaning on the table by a cluster of brightly dressed women.
Bergen chuckled. “I don’t understand what women see in him.”
“He talks to them?” Mattie suggested.
“In any case, I need to talk to him,” Bergen said, and walked up to Loharri, favoring his right foot. Goiter, Mattie remembered. The old man had goiter.
She moved behind Loharri, to stand still and listen. Loharri shot her a quick glance and a smile, and she momentarily felt grateful for that acknowledgement. Even though he had made her, with his own hands, put her together out of joints and slender metal bones, even though he knew more of her internal workings than anyone, he still managed to really see her as a whole.
Her attention was diverted by several automatons filing into the hall, their metal feet reverberating on the hollow floor of the sepulcher. They carried bottled wine and honeyed water, trays with fruit and bread and sweets, stacks of dishes and utensils. They moved in unison, their movements measured and devoid of any indication of free will. She had seen such servant automatons before, the mindless drudges that allowed for the leisure of the city’s inhabitants. And every time she saw them she felt deep unease, a pervading sense of wrong—how could they make them like that? she thought. If they were to have a mind, they would’ve been miserable with their lives of servitude—Mattie remembered the dark sense of injustice when she was little but a maid—but at the same time they would have the choice of misery. Making them without minds removed a potential conflict, and Mattie thought of the slaughterhouses in the outskirts, the dank places that smelled of rust and iron and rot. She ventured there to buy offal that was used in some of her ointments, but sometimes she watched the animals. It was like that, she thought, remembering the panic in sheep’s eyes; it was as if they managed to create a sheep that didn’t mind being slaughtered after it was led into a dark steel barrel of a room where steaming blood stood knee-deep.